Fourteen
MIKAELA
How much time had passed? A day? Longer?
It was difficult to know, as I was now locked in a different room with no clock after I had discovered Simon La Geness’s very own private gallery.
With that sword at my back, he had walked me to another part of the manor on that floor, through a hallway darkened except for the lantern he held, and then forced me into this room. Then, to make certain that I did not escape again, he had bound my wrists and tied me to a chair.
“You cannot hide what you’ve done,” I told him. “The others you brought here…”
“I have done nothing wrong,” he insisted, suddenly quite emotional. “It’s nothing more than young women responding to the advertisement for travel.”
How was it possible that he so easily excused what he’d done? The young women who had disappeared? Lizzie Smith murdered?
Had she refused to pose for him once she learned the purpose of those ads? And now?
I could only assume that he had no intention they would ever be released, or his scheme would be exposed. As for myself …
That seemed obvious as well.
He was mad, it was the only explanation.
“Once the paintings are seen, people will know what you’ve done …” I told him. “There will be no hiding it.”
“I will take the collection to Paris, where little attention will be given to who the models were, but instead, to the work itself. You saw how the people of London responded at the gallery.”
“You have to know that I was asked to make inquiries on behalf of one of the women,” I informed him, without providing a name. “Others will become suspicious. Especially …”
“When a lady of society disappears?” he suggested. He brushed a lock of hair that had spilled over his forehead. His hand trembled noticeably as it had the night of the reception at the Grosvenor.
“As I have said, your arrival here was … unexpected and most unfortunate,” he continued, dropping his hand to his side as if to hide it. “Yet, I will not deny that I very much wanted to paint a portrait of you after meeting you at the gallery.
“I thought, of course, that your portrait would have to be made from memory. Not that I haven’t done that before.”
Of course, I thought, a face glimpsed in the crowd, as he had explained it, then remembered and used for his next subject.
“The gown you were wearing that night,” he continued. “A color very much like dark wine, and as you have seen, very much the same in the painting.”
I had seen madness before, but this …
“And after you have finished the portrait? The same fate as Lizzie Smith?”
He seemed surprised. “A foolish girl, but a lady of society, known for her penchant for travel.” He shrugged. “It will be considered nothing more than you have simply taken yourself off again on another adventure.
“As for your likeness in the portrait? It will be easily explained as I have already said—an encounter at the gallery and the desire to capture your likeness if anyone should question it.”
I sadly thought of Gwen Tavers and Charlotte Davies and the fate that no doubt awaited them as well.
“Ah, yes,” he said then. “That is the expression that is needed for your portrait—just a touch of sadness, you are perhaps wistful. Far different from the others and fascinating, in my attempt to capture what your thoughts must be.”
I thought of those other portraits in the exhibit at the Grosvenor Gallery. Other young women drawn into his mad scheme?
The possibility was horrifying.
“You will remain here, for now,” he said as he turned to leave. “It is more comfortable here than in the rooms below.”
As if I was a guest he was entertaining.
“You cannot escape,” he said. “The door will be locked, and watched at all times.”
By a loyal servant? Perhaps the same one who had attacked me earlier? Possibly the same person who had killed Lizzie Smith?
He frowned. “There must be time to finish the portrait. You must not struggle to free yourself—the rope can bruise flesh terribly. You could scream, but as I am certain you have already discovered, there is no one to hear you. And I could not bear to see your lovely face marred.”
He turned to leave, but not before reaching out. I drew back as far as possible at the touch of his fingers as he angled my face toward the light from an oil lamp.
Was there regret perhaps in the way his fingers trembled? He cursed and made a fist of his hand clenched in the other.
“ Oui , of course. It is just that look in your eyes,” he added.
I heard the door lock from the outside as the metal lever clicked into place when he left, and then his footsteps gradually faded.
I slowly let out the breath I had taken at the touch of his fingers and fought to collect my thoughts.
I had to find a way out of that room and then find Gwen Tavers, Charlotte Davies, and any others whose faces I had seen on those portraits.
He had left the oil lamp behind. To prevent my being frightened in a darkened room? How very considerate.
Yet what La Geness had in store was far more frightening than a darkened room.
I glanced about for some means to rid myself of the rope that bound me to the chair.
The room had obviously been used as a dressing room, with a screen, table, and another chair, a full-length mirror, undoubtedly where the next young woman was prepared for her portrait sitting.
Without knowing either Gwen Tavers or Charlotte Davies, I tried to imagine what they must have felt when they were each brought to this room—confusion, fear, then helplessness?
It was not difficult to imagine as their hopes and excitement for the opportunity of travel were dashed by the reality of what they had found here. Had either of them fought back and attempted to escape?
It was possible that Gwen Tavers might have. I did not have the impression that she was either shy or weak. As for Charlotte Davies … I did not know.
Her family was well placed, she’d been given a proper education. I knew only what I had seen in her sister—strength, certainly.
She would have needed that for what awaited the women here, along with their dashed hopes for adventure in far places.
I glanced over at the side table. A ceramic pitcher and glass had been left there. For water that I couldn’t pour? I almost laughed.
So very kind of Monsieur La Geness, I thought, with no small amount of sarcasm that was far better than giving in to the fear of what waited if I was not able to free myself.
I looked at the pitcher again. Once broken, a piece of it might be used to cut the rope.
Neither my legs or ankles were bound. Difficult as it was, tied to that chair, I pushed to my feet, then slowly made my way across the room, dragging it with me.
It was exhausting, as I stopped, then began again, much like an enormous turtle I had once seen. It was awkward, clumsy, and I was certain that I might crash to the floor at any moment.
I eventually reached the table, then eased my shoulder under the edge and attempted to rock it back and forth in an effort to topple that pitcher.
It took more than one effort, but eventually the pitcher toppled to the floor and broke into several pieces. One of those pieces was the pitcher handle.
If I could reach it, I might be able to use it to cut the rope.
I thought of that turtle again as I rocked the chair from side to side, and finally managed to send it over and landed hard on the floor.
I lay there for several moments, expecting someone to charge through the door at any moment. When that didn’t happen, I managed to move closer to those shattered pieces of the pitcher until I was able to grab that broken handle.
As I lay there, trussed up like a Christmas goose for market, I began to slice at the rope. A sound at the door stopped me. It suddenly opened.
I fully expected La Geness or perhaps the person who had attacked me earlier, having heard the sound of my fall. Instead, I stared into large brown eyes in the thin face of a young girl.
“ Non! Non! ” she frantically whispered as she glanced back over her shoulder, then back at me. And still in French, “ This cannot be! ”
I was not certain who was more surprised as we stared at each other. It appeared that my ‘guard’ was in fact a child of no more than perhaps nine or ten years, and terrified.
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then quickly came into the room and closed the door behind her.
“Non, non ! ” she repeated as she knelt beside me, clearly upset. “Il y a du sang!”
Blood?
I glanced down at my hands.
I saw only a slight cut on one hand, certainly nothing to be upset about under the circumstances. Yet she was extremely distraught to the point of tears.
“ Blood, where ?” I asked in French.
Obviously surprised that I not only understood what she said but spoke French as well, she patted her fingers against her own cheek, and repeated the word for blood.
It appeared that I had managed to cut myself when I sent the chair over and landed on the floor amid the shattered pieces of the pitcher.
I was hardly in a position to be upset over a little blood. But that might certainly create a problem for La Geness’s plans for that portrait. I felt no sympathy there.
The situation was not at all what I might have expected. How was it that a child was even there, much less left to guard that door?
Before I could say more, she took the hem of her gown and gently pressed it against my cheek.
“What is your name ?” I asked in French.
It was Jolie , she replied, terrified that it would be discovered that I had attempted to escape.
I then asked if she could untie my wrists so that I could see how bad the cut was?
She refused at first, and backed away with another glance toward the door. She obviously expected someone to come through it at any moment, as did I.
What was she doing there? Was she La Geness’s daughter?
That hardly seemed to be the case. She was unbelievably thin, barefoot, and her gown was badly faded and stained. And there was the fear I saw on her face.
Was it possible that she was held against her will? Like others who had been brought here?
“You are the English lady I heard them speak of ? ” she asked.
I nodded.
She had unknowingly answered one of my questions. La Geness had not acted in this alone.
I then asked in French. “Were there other women brought here like myself?”
She nodded, then looked to the door once more.
They would beat her if they found out that she was talking to me, she whispered. And then she would end up like the others.
I explained that I had come to help them ... and I could help her. But first, I needed her help, I needed her to untie the rope.
I saw the fear and desperation in the expression at her face, and for a moment I was certain she would refuse.
Then her expression changed, and I saw something of what I had seen in Lily when we first met in Edinburgh, the strength hidden there. Along with hope.
“I will help you ,” she said then . “But you must promise to take me with you.”
I assured her that I would. She then knelt behind me on the floor, and I felt her tug at the rope. It went slack. I pulled it away, freeing myself from the chair, then slowly pushed to my feet.
We stood there, looking at each other, perhaps both trying to figure out what the other would do next. She did not shout for help, and even now stood only a few feet away with that hesitant expression on her face.
I complimented her for being very brave and asked how old she was. And like Lily, she did not know.
I then asked how she came to be there.
“ They bought me on the street in Paris.”
The words tore at me. However, I was not surprised. I knew that it happened far too often on the streets of London, and obviously in other places as well.
“Will you leave me here now that you are free of the rope?” she asked.
“I don’t break my promises,” I replied. “ We will leave together.”
My heart ached for her—so very young, no doubt abandoned, and then left to a fate with someone like La Geness.
She had spoken of ‘ them’ again. I needed to know who else was part of this mad scheme, and asked who they were.
“ Monsieur and the woman ,” she replied. “And there is a man who works for them. I do not like him.”
She then asked if I was the woman in the painting.
I explained that I was not that woman, that it was an illusion of La Geness’s imagination.
“ No,” I replied. “ I am not, but he wants me to be.”
And then a horrifying thought. Was he perhaps grooming her to be a model for one of his portraits? To then be gotten rid of like the others?
“ There are others. Do you know where they are ? ” I asked.
She slowly nodded.